


Where I Stand

by thefontbandit



Series: Silver & Gold [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Light Angst, M/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 16:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5974057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefontbandit/pseuds/thefontbandit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Satinalia festivities lead to a tipsy confession and further tension between Inquisitor Adaar and Dorian.</p><p>(Sorry, I didn't intend for these to turn out to be a slow burn... whoops).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where I Stand

“Are they actually doing what I think they’re about to do?” Dorian asks with mild concern, taking another sip of his beer.

“Yep.” Kashek Adaar’s response is resigned, punctuated with a sigh.

From their vantage point at a corner table on the lowest floor of Herald’s Rest, the two have a clear view of the noisy chaos taking place in the center of the tavern. The Satinalia festivities are in high swing, the alcohol flowing perhaps a bit too freely, if such a thing is possible.

The Iron Bull stands in the center of the pub, his neck craned back to look up through the open atrium of the building. Sera balances on his upstretched hands, perched lightly on his palms.

Around the pair, a large group of onlookers cheer them on while exchanging wagers.

“Ready?” Sera calls down to Bull as she lowers herself into a crouch, eyeing the railing that edges the third floor.

“Aye-aye,” Bull replies, knees bending into a squat, his powerful legs bunching beneath him in preparation.

“Um, should we stop them?” Dorian’s question is touched with unease, but Kashek notices he does not move to intercede.

He shrugs. “Would they listen?”

“Bull would, if you asked.”

“Mmm,” Kashek makes a small affirmative sound and nods. “I suppose.” He smiles to himself and takes another drink, setting his now-empty mug aside. Maybe he’s imbibed a bit more than is really a good idea. His thoughts have taken on a fuzzy quality, soft around the edges, and a pleasant lassitude has settled over him. He finds it difficult to muster any true worry about Bull and Sera’s mischief. Instead, he only feels a wry fondness for this odd bunch of friends he’s made in the Inquisition. He nods toward the pair as the crowd urges them on. “But if I stopped Bull, Sera would just find someone else to join in some form of shenanigans. At least I trust Bull not to set the place on fire. I hope.” He gestures toward an opposite corner. “And if Bull’s involved, at least Krem will keep _him_ in line.”

It’s true. The corner he points to contains one Cremisius Aclassi, perched lightly on the edge of his chair with mug in hand, ready to jump to his chief’s aid at a moment’s notice. His Satinalia mask is a parody of Bull, complete with a dark eye patch painted around the left eye hole and miniature papier-mâché versions of Bull’s wide horns. Most of the revelers are wearing the simple, inexpensive masks Josephine had brought in for the event, but Krem must have made or commissioned his own.

The entire event was Krem’s idea, actually, one of his brainstorms about morale.

“Been a while since we had a real solid victory for the troops to celebrate,” Krem had mentioned quietly to Kashek one day. “They need something to lift the spirits. Satinalia is coming up, might be good to liven the place up a bit.”

It had been an excellent idea, one Kashek had presented to Josephine, and which she had picked up from there.

A loud, collective cheer draws his eye back to the spectacle in the center of the tavern. Bull is mid-leap now, and shoves Sera upward with all the strength of his massive arms at the zenith of his jump. The tiny elf springs up, launching herself at the third floor railing as Bull’s landing rattles the floorboards of the tavern. Sera manages to brush the wood of the balustrade with her fingertips, but loses her grasp and falls. Instinctively, Kashek pushes his chair back and lunges around the table, his mental fog suddenly vanishing, but Bull is prepared for this. He catches the elf easily, swings her about in a wide arc without breaking her momentum, and launches her up again. This time, Sera manages to grasp the wood with both hands, swinging herself up onto the rail with a whoop. She jumps up and down, making a rude gesture as she cheers.

“How much did we win?” She calls down to Bull.

Kashek breathes a sigh of relief and shakes his head ruefully, the sudden jolt of adrenaline abandoning him as the crisis ends. He turns to retake his seat at the table, and the world rocks ever so slightly at the sudden motion, a small wave of vertigo. He’s startled to find Dorian also resettling in his chair, lightly shaking one hand that still crackles with energy, whatever spell he’d been preparing to cast now aborted.

As Kashek pulls his chair in, Dorian huffs out an exasperated breath, rubbing his temple wearily with one hand. “I swear, I will have at least one gray hair by the end of this, and it won’t be Corypheus to blame,” he mutters grumpily.

Kashek smiles as a brief surge of affection thrums through him, a sensation that is becoming only too familiar. Feelings that started so small, but have grown stronger and more insistent with every day in Dorian’s company. Without thought, his hand begins to reach toward Dorian’s where it lies curled on the table beside his mug. But suddenly Kashek realizes his foolishnes and stops, pulling it back. _Definitely a little too much to drink,_ he scolds himself ruefully. _No need to push him away any further,_ he thinks, his mood swinging suddenly despondent.

The mage has been… odd, lately. Small things, ones that probably skip past the notice of others. Something changed in him, that day on the Storm Coast when Kashek finally responded to Dorian’s playful teasing. There is a strange hesitancy in the mage’s flirtations now, his smiles a little sharper, his sarcasm more pointed.

Though he’s pretended not to notice, it concerns Kashek. Did he misread the mage’s intentions, go too far? Had it been nothing more than a jest? Is Dorian offended by his positive response?

However, Dorian has chosen to sit here tonight, when he could be anywhere else. Here, and yet behind an invisible wall that Kashek doesn’t know how to breach.

The silence has grown too long, too awkward. He has to say something. But when he looks up, Dorian is staring down at Kashek’s hand, the one that had just been outstretched and is now drawn back. The mage’s own fingers twitch slightly.

They both startle when one of Cabot’s barmaids suddenly lifts Kashek’s empty mug to refill it. Dorian’s lips curl into a small, grim smile and he focuses his gaze back on his own drink, finishing it off so he can get a refill as well.

Kashek tries to ignore the rush of heat he feels in his cheeks. An embarrassing habit, his tendency to flush deeply crimson, but one he can’t seem to prevent. So instead, he covers his nervousness by smiling at the barmaid. She’s the new one… what is her name again? Libby? It’s so hard to keep track of everyone now that Skyhold is full to the brim, but he tries.

“Thank you,” he nods to her, and she responds with a wide grin.

“Nah, thank you ser, for the party. Tips been somethin’ else tonight!” She winks and flits off to the next table.

By now, Sera has scampered back down the steps to help Bull collect their winnings, and the crowd has spread out, taking their own tables or wandering up to the other floors of the tavern. Maryden takes her usual spot and starts up a merry tune, while a handful of partygoers select partners for the dance.

Almost against his will, Kashek’s eyes are drawn back to the face beside him. The lantern light limns Dorian’s proud profile, the flickering lights reflecting a quiet, wistful quality in those gray eyes as he watches the dancers.

 _If I asked him to dance, would he say yes?_ Kashek suspects he knows the answer, and doesn’t ask. But he wants to. He fears he will, after another mug or two. And what might happen then? Will Dorian turn aside, the question the final straw that pushes him away completely?

Suddenly, it is all too loud, too lively for the pensive turn of his thoughts. The warmth of so many bodies confined in the building is oppressive, suffocating. Kashek finishes off his new drink in a few long gulps and pushes the mug away. A small wave of pleasant, dizzy warmth runs through him as he takes the last swallow. It is a very strong stout, much better than the usual watery stuff they serve here. Josephine did well, acquiring various drinks and bringing in food supplies for this event. The kitchen even baked some sort of little cinnamon buns studded with chopped, roasted nuts, of which he’d eaten a few more than his fair share.

“It’s getting a bit crowded in here,” he tells Dorian as he pushes his chair back. “I’m going to take a walk.” _I need to clear my head before I do something stupid._

To his surprise, the mage follows suit, finishing off his own mug with a slight grimace at the beverage’s quality. It makes Kashek smile with fond amusement, this reminder that the beer he enjoys is barely palatable to Dorian. “I think I might join you, if you don’t mind,” the mage says as he stands and stretches, but offers no further explanation, no hint of his intentions in his casual tone.

“Of course,” Kashek responds without hesitation. It hasn’t escaped his notice that the mage has avoided being truly alone with him since that day on the Coast. Until now.

“Then we should probably go, because Bull and Sera are looking this way and I’m not sure I trust that look of mischief on their faces.”

Kashek laughs, picking up his cloak from the back of his chair. “Then let’s go.”

 

 

The night outside is chilly, even for Skyhold’s cool climate. A light, early snow has started to fall.

“Lovely,” Dorian grumbles while he scowls up at the sky, as if his scorn alone is enough to make the snowfall cease.

Kashek smiles again and wonders how even Dorian’s irritation can be endearing to him. But the fact remains that it is, along with so many other things. Before the mage’s wry humor became a daily addition to his life, Kashek rarely smiled much. But he catches himself grinning more often these days, particularly in Dorian’s presence.

In contrast to the mage’s discomfort, Kashek turns his face up eagerly to the cool breeze. It is the deepest hour of the night, somewhere between midnight and dawn. Both moons shine brightly, Satina appropriately full this evening. The beer has left him unreasonably warm, and the chill air feels good on his flushed skin. “Here,” he slips off his cloak and drapes it over Dorian’s shoulders, on top of the heavy coat the mage already wears. The cloak is drab, but well-made and warm.

“Wonderful,” Dorian sighs without rancor. The cloak that only reaches Kashek’s knees nearly drags the ground on Dorian. “Now I look like a child trying on his parent’s clothing.”

Kashek grins at him. “Warm, though.”

The mage starts to shrug off the garment, but shivers in the cool air, pauses, then pulls it tighter around himself. “If you tell anyone about this, I swear I’ll sabotage the next batch of spider-repellent candles,” he threatens haughtily.

“Consider my lips sealed.” Kashek crosses the bit of ground to the low wall overlooking the lower courtyard. He leans on the cool stone. Its touch against his skin seems to clear his head a little, though the world still rocks dizzyingly if he turns too quickly.

Beside him, Dorian shivers as they gaze out over the darkened grounds—the infirmary, the merchants’ stalls closed up for the night, and the stables shuttered tightly against the chill.

Dorian’s threat about keeping the cloak a secret is an empty one. There are any number of others still awake to witness him wearing the plain garment, though few seem to notice. The population of Skyhold has grown too large for everyone to fit in the tavern, and the revelries have expanded out into the rest of the castle. Laughter spills from the open door of the smithy, and small, chatty groups cross the courtyard on their way to the tavern or back to their beds. A few amorous couples have tucked themselves into shadowed corners, perhaps a bit too inebriated to bother finding a room or tent. All the activity is strange, for these small, dark hours are normally so quiet and peaceful, Kashek’s favorite time of the day. These are usually the only hours he can hear himself think, and find a bit of solitude.

Dorian starts to lean on the wall beside him, but immediately pulls his hand back sharply from the chill, snow-brushed stone.

“I’ve no idea how you’re still cold,” Kashek remarks, loosening the scarf around his neck. “You matched me drink for drink.”

“If you want to see me truly drunk, you’ll have to try harder than that,” Dorian replies with a smirk. “Not my fault you’re a cheap date.”

Even past the fuzziness of inebriation, or perhaps made worse because of it, Kashek’s heartbeat stutters for a moment. _It’s just a turn of phrase, you idiot,_ he reminds himself. But he is grateful that the moonlight has washed everything out to sharp silver and black, because he can feel the heat rushing to his cheeks again. He tries to think of something to say in response, but his tongue seems suddenly wooden. Instead, he steals a sideways glance at Dorian standing next to him, staring out over the grounds now. Tiny snowflakes are landing in his hair, dotting the darkness like stars. His breath puffs out, visible in the cold evening air.

As a mercy to the chilled mage, Kashek turns toward the main keep, gesturing for Dorian to follow. “Come on, you should get indoors before you turn into an icicle.”

He expects some sort of witty remark in response, but the mage follows in companionable silence instead. Kashek leads them through the throne room, scattered with small groups lost in their own bubbles of conversation. He slips through the northeast door and down the small staircase to the vault area. This part of the castle, at least, is empty, dimly lit by only a single guttering candle.

“Well, this is starting to feel a bit spooky,” Dorian remarks dryly. “I think I’ve read this story. One of Varric’s cheap horror novels, if I recall correctly.”

“It’s quiet,” Kashek offers as explanation, taking the candle from its sconce and leading the way into the tiny, private library that no one else ever uses. It’s one of the few sanctums where he can hide from the daily demands of the Inquisition.

“And secluded,” Dorian lowers his voice and raises an eyebrow, a hint of his usual flirtatiousness finally peeking through as he sits on the edge of the desk that takes up most of this little room. When they’d first discovered this small study, the place had been caked in old dust, but it had been given a thorough once-over as part of the renovations. “It is rather… cozy.” Dorian’s voice is coy, his gaze playful.

And there it is again. The mage is like the fickle ocean waves, approaching and receding in an endless cycle. He teases now, but will he pull away again if Kashek responds?

Frustration courses through him suddenly. How long must this continue? Maybe it’s the beer making him bold, but Kashek finds his courage. “Dorian…” he asks, meeting those flippant eyes squarely. “What is this?”

“This?” The mage picks up a book lying on the desk and squints at the lettering on the spine. “A guide on raising nugs, apparently.” He grimaces and sets it aside. His voice is a touch too acerbic, though, his expression not quite reaching his eyes.

Kashek sighs, suddenly very weary of these games. He places the candle in a small holder on the desk and leans over it, palms flat on the surface. “You know what I mean,” he says quietly, staring carefully at the back of his hands, at the pattern of old, inlaid wood on the desk’s surface. “What is this? Us?”

Dorian could feign misunderstanding again. Kashek half expects it. But instead, he’s silent for so long that Kashek wonders if he will respond at all. When he does, he answers with another question, his voice carefully neutral, toneless.

“What do you want it to be?”

 _More than this,_ Kashek wants to say. More than games, more than quips and compliments and coy, teasing remarks. But he can’t admit that, won’t admit it. The last time he started to reach out, Dorian withdrew.

“I don’t know,” Kashek says instead.

_No. That’s cowardice. Now or never._

Emboldened, he twists to face Dorian where he sits on the desk’s edge. “No. I _do_ know. I know exactly how I feel.” The words start to spill out in a messy rush, fueled by the alcohol, held back for too long. “I know that when you’re around, all of this is more bearable. That the world seems brighter when you’re in it. Around you, I’m… lighter, better. I don’t know how else to describe it, but I like that version of myself. At night, when I’m falling asleep, the last thing I see in my mind is your smile. And I want more of you, and I don’t like this awkwardness, the not knowing, the uncertainty whether you feel the same way, or if it’s all really just some game to you and I’m the one who’s being a fool.”

He stops, the flood of words running its course, a lull in the storm. It’s quite possibly more consecutive words than Kashek has ever strung together at once, and maybe also some of the least coherent.

For the first time since they’ve met, Dorian is speechless. The faint, flickering candlelight reflects within eyes wide with surprise. But there is more hiding behind Dorian’s gaze than just astonishment, something Kashek never expected to see. Hope, cloaked within a shadow of cautious doubt.

Now that the words have started to spill out, Kashek can’t seem to stop them. “I’m tired, Dorian. Tired of pushing and pulling at one another, of dancing away from… whatever this is. I need to know. Even if the answer is no.” His chest feels suddenly tight, like ill-fitting armor constricting his breath.

Dorian still can’t seem to find a response, closing his eyes as he sits very straight and clutches Kashek’s cloak tightly about himself like armor. Proud, and scared, and utterly beautiful.

Kashek doesn’t think, his hand moving almost without conscious thought, his fingertips touching Dorian’s cheek so lightly, then cupping the side of his face in his hand. The mage does not flinch away. Gently, so gently. One wrong move will shatter the fragile moment, Kashek knows. Dorian sits perfectly still, a statue carved in stone, his breathing shallow. Except his eyes have opened, and they swirl with a tumult of emotions so chaotic Kashek can’t decipher them all.

When has anyone ever seen this self-assured mage so vulnerable? The surge of fierce protectiveness that rushes through Kashek is so strong it’s nearly frightening, bolstered by awe and a gentler affection. Dorian’s skin is cool against Kashek’s fingertips, still chilled from their walk outside.

But all he can focus on is those lips, normally so expressive when they curl into a sardonic smile, now slightly parted in something akin to wonder.

 _I’m going to kiss him now,_ Kashek realizes suddenly, his pulse racing as he leans in closer.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Maker help me, he’s going to kiss me._

Dorian can’t even identify what he’s feeling. His stomach twists painfully, as if writhing serpents fill his guts. He wants it so much, and that’s what worries him most. Kashek’s fingertips touch his face so lightly, but he can still feel the calluses in those battle-worn hands. Suddenly, he wonders what those strong hands would feel like touching the rest of his skin, too, and he aches for it.

And if that were all it was, it would be a simple thing.

But it’s not.

Dorian understands lust. Desire is straightforward and clean. This is not. This is a messy business that ends in heartbreak, afterward, when Kashek comes to his senses and discards him in shame, or disgust, or even worse, casual dismissal.

He doesn’t know if he can bear to see those painful, too-familiar things in the Inquisitor’s eyes.

 _Better now than later,_ Dorian reminds himself, and twists away, sliding off the desk.

“I’m sorry,” are the only words he can manage before he escapes, walking away with long, carefully-paced strides, restraining the urge to flee quickly. His dignity, at least, he can maintain.

He’s halfway back to his room before he realizes he’s still wearing the cloak.

 

* * *

 

After that, Dorian avoids the Inquisitor. It’s not terribly difficult; Kashek is a busy enough man. Cowardly, he even asks Cole to return the cloak for him, and the spirit agrees. It is uncomfortable, to wonder what the boy sees in his head when he shoves the folded bit of wool at Cole and makes the request. He flees before the spirit can give voice to those thoughts.

He hears nothing from Kashek in response. But a little more than a week later, he is summoned to help on another mission.

Word of their last two dragon slayings has spread, and Josephine is positively gleeful about the influence this has garnered with interested nobles, along with the wealth from the sale of trophies. So when Crestwood reaches out with a request regarding a troublesome beast killing their herds, Ambassador Montilyet sends the Inquisitor out to deal with the creature personally.

And he’s asked Dorian to come along.

The messenger stands before him, an expectant look on her face, awaiting his answer. He sighs. “I’ll be ready when the Inquisitor leaves in the morning.” She nods and scampers away to deliver his message.

Dorian runs one hand through his hair nervously. Why would Kashek request his aid rather than taking one of the other mages, after that disastrous Satinalia incident? Surely this is as awkward for the Inquisitor?

Or is this some sort of punishment for turning him down? It is a move that would not be out of place in the mind games of his homeland.

 _No,_ Dorian rejects that idea as soon as it occurs to him. That’s not Kashek’s way. The Inquisitor can hold a grudge sometimes, but vindictive cruelty is not in his nature.

And so, Dorian is left to stew in his thoughts while he prepares for the departure tomorrow. At least there are many small tasks to be done before leaving on any mission, enough to keep his mind occupied until then.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, Dorian picks at a loose thread on his robe while he waits at the gate. It’s not often that he arrives before the Inquisitor, but he awoke at dawn with his stomach twisted into knots and there was little use in trying to catch more sleep.

He realizes he’s fidgeting, and forces his hand to stop pulling the thread, crossing his arms to still his unruly fingers.

“C’mon,” Sera grumbles impatiently beside him, never much of one for idling. “Let’s get this going. Sooner it’s frigging dead, sooner we’re back, right?”

The Iron Bull stands nearby as well, obviously thrilled about the prospect of more dragon-hunting. The Qunari practically vibrates with barely-contained excitement. It’s a bit disturbing, really.

Before either of them can respond to Sera’s comment, the door across the courtyard opens, and Kashek walks out into the morning sunlight. Despite himself, Dorian meets the Inquisitor’s eyes. He isn’t sure what he expected to see, but he definitely wasn’t prepared for the brief flicker of naked pain before Kashek deliberately glances away.

By the time he crosses the courtyard, the Inquisitor’s usual placid, thoughtful expression is mostly back in place, his gaze an attempt at being carefully neutral. He isn’t very good at it, but Sera doesn’t seem to notice, and if Bull does, he’s smart enough not to mention it.

Dorian inhales deeply and settles his features into his best mask. It’s going to be a very long journey.

 

* * *

 

Dragon-slaying is not a glorious experience, despite what The Iron Bull says. It is a long and exhausting slog of endurance, slowly wearing down and harrying the beast until someone in the party can get in a lucky shot.

Four hours.

That’s how long this creature took to bring down, a wearying amount of time to maintain the focus needed for his spells. Dorian is very good at what he does, but even he is exhausted by the time the beast falls. That the two Qunari warriors are still standing must be some sort of miracle. The earth shakes when the massive animal sways and topples. Dorian leans on his staff for support, every bone aching, his head throbbing with the headache that’s plagued him for the past hour and a half. He’s desperately thirsty and ravenously hungry, too. The walk back to camp suddenly seems like the most miserable task imaginable.

The Iron Bull is cheering, somehow still possessing enough energy to jog toward Sera’s vantage point. “Did you see that?” He calls to her excitedly.

At least Kashek looks nearly as fatigued as Dorian feels. The Inquisitor stretches, sheathing his sword and taking slow, tired steps. He gives Dorian a weary smile that pierces. How can he still smile, after last week? After the past few painful days of avoiding one another whenever it was remotely possible, and only the most awkward, carefully casual conversation when they had to speak?

With his back turned to the downed beast, Kashek doesn’t see the dragon muster the last of her strength and make one final lunge for him, jaws open wide and those sharp teeth gleaming.

The terror and anger that consumes Dorian is like nothing he’s ever felt, sudden and searing.

“No!” he cries, summoning his last reserves of energy and aiming his staff at the creature. The wall of ice erupts behind Kashek without a second to spare, the dragon’s teeth crunching uselessly against it. She scrabbles at it for a moment, shattering the ice, but it’s too late. The last of her life force spent, the creature falls and remains still this time.

Suddenly, Dorian’s knees buckle, the ground rushing up to meet him as a wave of nausea and vertigo washes over him. When the darkness claims him, it’s almost a mercy.

 

* * *

 

 

“Come out and sit with us, boss,” Bull urges, holding open the tent flap. “I think Sera’s trying to convince one of the scouts to eat a live bug. Should be entertaining.”

“No thank you,” Kashek responds quietly, sitting awkwardly in the small tent, his horns threatening to poke holes in the top of the canvas.

“He’ll be fine, you know. Healers said so.”

“I know. But I’d like to stay here, if it’s all the same.”

Bull snorts in disagreement, but doesn’t argue. “Whatever you say, boss. Invitation stands, if you change your mind.” He lets the tent flap close.

Kashek shifts uncomfortably. His feet have fallen asleep again, and finding a new position is difficult. There isn’t much room in the small tent, with Dorian stretched out along the center, still unconscious.

“Just exhaustion, and probably some dehydration,” the healer had told him. “He’ll be fine with rest and water.” She’d been able to rouse the mage just enough to get him to swallow a bit of water, but then he’d dropped off again. Kashek had wanted to use a healing potion, but the healer advised against it. “They’re great for battlefield triage,” she’d said, “but potions take their toll elsewhere in the body. What’s best for him is just to rest.”

It’s been two hours since then, while Kashek waits and watches Dorian’s slow breathing. They’d made it back to camp without incident, Kashek carrying the unconscious mage. Night has fallen, the hunters long since dispatched to the battle site for the grisly work of acquiring the trophies that would be sold off to fund the Inquisition. Bull and Sera have spent the time regaling the scouts with stories of the fight, easily audible through the canvas of the tent. Even now, he hears an outcry from the group and Bull’s infectious laughter.

Kashek finds it difficult to laugh. This is his fault. Doubly so, actually. He should have left Dorian at Skyhold in the first place, should have taken Vivienne instead. It had been selfishness, pure and simple. He’d known it would be awkward, and probably painful. Kashek knew the mage had been avoiding him, but everything seemed dimmer without him, like Kashek was only half-awake. He’d missed Dorian’s presence with a keening ache that grew every day. It left him distracted, tired, and irritable. By the fourth day after Satinalia, Josephine had sent Kashek to the infirmary, suspecting that he was taking ill. The healers found nothing, of course.

So he’d requested Dorian’s help on this mission, via messenger, too cowardly to ask himself. He’d half-expected a polite refusal, some excuse.

Kashek hadn’t been prepared for it to hurt so keenly, being close to Dorian and yet also not. He hasn’t slept well this entire journey. The few days of travel have been awkward and difficult. Dorian has done a respectable job of pretending everything’s fine, but it’s obvious the tension causes him trouble too, dark circles appearing beneath his eyes and his usual good-natured sarcasm turning bitter.

_It’s my fault that Dorian wasn’t at his best when the battle began._

Then he made his second crucial mistake. Kashek should never have turned his back on that dragon until he was certain it was dead. He knows better than that. It was foolish, and stupid, and could have cost him his life.

Or Dorian’s.

It had been the most frightening moment of his life, when he watched Dorian crumple bonelessly to the ground like that. Worse than confronting Corypheus for the first time, or the moment he’d been buried in the avalanche at Haven. The entire world stopped while he ran toward the mage, and only started again when he saw Dorian’s chest rise and fall in a shallow breath.

His hands clench tightly into fists, his fury directed only within. A tight ball of anxiety still sits heavy in his stomach, and he knows it will remain until Dorian awakens again.

As if aware of his thoughts, Dorian stirs. It’s just a faint movement, one hand reaching sleepily to pull the blankets higher around his chin.

Kashek says his name, his voice almost a whisper. The mage’s eyes open, blinking blearily. When they focus on Kashek, confusion washes over his features.

‘Where am I?” he croaks, then coughs to clear his throat.

“In camp,” Kashek replies, trying to keep the raw relief from his voice and failing. He reaches for the flask nearby and holds it out to Dorian. “Drink this. The healer said you needed to when you woke up.”

The mage props himself on one arm for a moment, then sits up gingerly, as if every movement hurts. He takes the flask, sips cautiously, then immediately drains it. It seems to steady him.

He sets the flask aside, lips pursed in disgust. “Whatever that is, it’s positively vile,” he remarks with a touch of his usual humor.

“Mild elfroot tea,” Kashek answers. “The healer said it’d help.”

“And they can’t add a little berry or honey, anything to mask _that_ flavor? Kick a man while he’s down, is what that does.”

“I’ll pass on your recommendations,” Kashek can’t keep the smile from his face. Just to hear Dorian’s complaints again is a relief.

“What happened?”

“Dehydration, exhaustion. You lost consciousness.”

“Well, that’s rather embarrassing.”

“Since you did it saving my stupid skin, I doubt anyone is going to tease you much,” Kashek responds lightly, picking up the flask. “I’ll refill this.” He pauses before slipping out of the tent. The words feel awkward now, but he needs to say them. “Thank you, for saving me.”

The silence is palpable for a few heavy moments.

“Well, we can’t have the Inquisitor dropping dead on us, can we? You’re the one with the Anchor, after all. Only doing my duty.” His voice is cool, neutral.

The words are brittle, but they still cut.

Outside, there is a small fire pit, separate from the larger, main bonfire that the others huddle around some distance away. This one is just banked embers, with a sturdy cast-iron teapot sitting on the warm coals. While he carefully pours tea into the flask, Kashek tries to overcome the ache inside with logic. Obviously, neither of them are at their best around one another any more. He’d ruined that with drunken, awkward confessions. Perhaps Dorian will do better to stay at Skyhold when Kashek is called out into the field from now on. Vivienne and Solas are more than capable, without causing him a distraction.

It only makes sense, but it still hurts, thorny tendrils binding his chest tightly.

He returns the teapot to the dying coals and turns back to the tent. But at the flap, he pauses. Turning aside, Kashek makes his way to his own tent, then rummages in his pack until he finds what he’s looking for. A small jar, well-stoppered and sealed against accidental leaks. He pries it open and pours a dollop of the honey into the flask of tea, then caps it and shakes it well.

When Kashek returns to Dorian’s tent, the mage looks much better, sitting upright, eyes brighter. Has he combed his hair, or is Kashek just imagining that?

Kashek sets the flask and jar of honey just inside the flap of the tent. He does not enter fully, intending to leave as soon as he passes on the healer’s instructions. His voice is carefully civil, businesslike, the hurt locked away behind a door. “There’s more tea just outside your tent. The healer advised you drink it all first, then some water. We have buckets of clean water out by the main bonfire, when you feel well enough to join everyone.”

Dorian is not looking at him, though. He stares instead at the small jar, all too aware of what it is and to whom it belongs. He’s playfully mocked the amount of honey Kashek pours into his morning tea on more than one occasion.

The mage shifts his gaze, staring intently down at his own hands rather than meeting Kashek’s eyes. When he speaks, his voice is bitter, almost angry. “Why do you still insist upon being so… nice?” He seems genuinely confused by the gesture. “After…” He hesitates, his normally glib tongue abandoning him.

Kashek sighs. “I told you where I stand, Dorian,” he says gently. At his name, the mage glances up, meets his eyes briefly, but looks away again. “That hasn’t changed,” Kashek continues softly. The words burn, but he forces them out anyway. “I still don’t know how you feel, and I’m not sure you do either. If you change your mind, the next move is yours. I won’t disturb you further.”

It is one of the hardest things he’s had to do on this journey, even worse than the long, difficult battle with the dragon. But he lets the tent flap close, swallows the lump that has formed in his throat, and walks away.


End file.
